Scrambled
by Crystal Sampson
Summary: A story about witches, brothers, and fire. And maybe a little amnesia thrown in for good measure.
1. Chapter 1

Standard Disclaimer Applies. Supernatural isn't mine.

This is a fill for the mind control/possession prompt on my h/c bingo card.

* * *

"Hey."

There was a voice. It was deep and quiet. It was nice.

"Come on. Open your eyes."

The voice was accompanied by a strong grip. Eyes sounded easy enough. Except they seemed to be glued shut.

"I know you're awake," the voice said. "Just open your eyes."

There. There were the eyelids. The light was almost painful after sleeping so long, but a few blinks brought a room into focus. The man was leaning down, a little close for comfort. His dark hair was a mess and there were dark circles under his eyes.

The small frown of confusion caused a sharp prick as lip skin cracked and split.

The man smiled, seemingly relieved rather than concerned. "Hey," he said. His tone was warm and happy. "Welcome back. I was worried you weren't going to wake up."

His voice was soft. There was a nice cadence to it too. But why had he been worried? Something didn't quite make sense, but it was too much to figure out. It was easier to slip back into the mindless drifting from before.

"Come on. Stay with me, here. Don't go back to sleep just yet."

Eyes. That meant eyes again. With a lot of work they slipped open, barely more than slits this time. The man smiled again.

"Just hang with me for a minute. I need you to answer a couple of questions."

Blinking threatened to turn into sleep again.

"How's your head?"

Head? Was something wrong? Nothing felt out of place.

"Are you hurting?"

Hurting? No.

"Okay, okay." The man said. "But I need you to talk. Can you do that for me?"

Talking was a thing. People spoke. But it seemed alien at that moment.

"Do you remember what happened?"

Another frown irritated the cracked lips from before. A frown meant not quite. There wasn't anything to remember.

"Words," the man said with a small frown. "I need words here."

No.

"Come on, you can do it. If you say something, I'll let you go back to sleep."

Fine. Breathing in felt like sucking air through a tiny straw and the word was scratchy against the dryness of a parched mouth. "No."

The man chuckled. "Fair enough. Go back to sleep."

Blinking awake came easier this time and the light was different, warmer. The man was reclining in a chair next to the bed, eyes closed, and breathing softly. The small rustle of sheets against skin made him stir. He stretched and leaned forward with an easy smile. "Morning."

The smile was easy to return. It felt good even. The silence stretched out. The man probably wanted words again, but that would be a lot more work than it's worth.

The room looked familiar somehow. It should probably have be easy to recognize but it's mostly foreign. There was a picture on the nightstand of a woman. She was very pretty, but not familiar at all.

"Are you actually awake this time?"

Shifting to look at him was a slow process as stiff muscles made themselves known. This time?

"You've been in and out all night."

Oh. Something happened, didn't it? That mades sense.

"Been waiting on you to wake up so we could get some food in you. Feel up to eating?"

It was still too early. Everything was too hazy for food. Everything felt too soft around the edges. Here looked like a place, but not any place namable. The man, too, felt safe, but in some indefinable way. He just fit and that's all that was important.

"Okay," he said, propping himself on his elbows on the edge of the bed. "I need words. You've got to talk. Let me know you're in there."

Words. Fine. But there was no question to answer.

The man seemed to understand. "Are you feeling okay? Any pain?"

"No." The word came out rough. It hurt to speak.

The man winced and offered up a cup with a straw. The water felt like heaven on dry, parched skin, but it was pulled away too quickly.

"Easy," the man said, reaching over to the nightstand. "Don't want to make yourself sick." He set the cup down and turned back. "How's your head?"

"Fine?" It was fine. Nothing to report.

The man sighed. "Okay. How 'bout that breakfast?"

The thought of food might be okay, actually.

"I know you're still a little scrambled, but you're worrying me. You're never this quiet."

"Food is fine." There was even enough energy left over for a little smile. Smiles were good. They meant things were okay.

The man beamed back. "Okay. I'll be back. Don't go back to sleep on me."

The man left and was back in a few minutes, carrying a plate of eggs and a fork. "Think you got this?"

Got this? Oh, right. Arms were kind of important for eating. Sitting up took a lot more energy than it should have, but there was enough left for a few clumsy bites. Not that it mattered. The first three bites stirred up a queasy churning that made the rest of the meal look disgusting.

"Done."

The man frowned, leaning over and to look at the plate. "You barely touched it. Just a few more bites? For me?"

That should have been important. That this man was asking should have prodded whatever reserves of gumption there were. The churning, roiling of the first few bites of egg was enough to overcome that temptation though. "Done."

The man's frown deepened. He leaned forward to make eye contact. Something was wrong. That much was obvious. Just from the squinty eyed look, it was obviously time for another round of questions.

"How much do you remember?" The man starts. He's chosing his words carefully.

"Remember?"

"About what happened."

"No." That wasn't the right word. It can't have been because the man had started to look worried.

"You don't remember anything about the shit storm the other day?"

"No?"

He made a little noise in the back of his throat. "Okay, maybe I missed something. Concussion check. What's your name?"

Name? People had names. That should have been an easy question. It wasn't. There wasn't an obvious answer. It wasn't a question that needed a good answer or a bad answer. It needed an other answer, one with lots of words.

"Can you tell me your name?"

"Name…"

"Okay, what about mine?"

"Man." He was a man. That was something like a name.

The man looked a little stricken, but he pressed on. "Not quite. How about the date? What year is it?"

Years were a measure of time. The man looked like he might be somewhere around forty years. Years were counted from the birth of Jesus. Jesus must have been really old by now.

"Ancient."

The man froze. Obviously that was a really wrong answer. There was no way to know these questions. It didn't make sense. Why did he keep asking impossible questions?

"Hey," the man said gently, reaching out. The touch was grounding, but not particularly comforting. "Hey, it's alright. You took a pretty nasty blow to the head. Things will sort themselves out soon enough."

There had to be something in this whole moment that made sense. The man helped rearrange the pillows and the sheet so that lying back was more comforting. He carded his fingers through the hair splayed out on the pillow. They massaged as they worked through tangles. The frustration gave way to exhaustion as the man started humming something slow and half remembered.

He shot upright from sleep, shocked into awareness by the nightmare filled with screaming and blood and some woman he doesn't recognize. It was sharp and horrible, but faded nearly as soon as he realized he was awake. A hand landed on his back and he jumped, still jittery from the confusion of the dream. The man is there, looking as wide-eyed, startled as he feels.

"Shit," the man said. "Are you okay?"

As he sat, panting, the fear and adrenaline began to fade. He blinked when the glow of the bedside lamp clicked on. "Just a nightmare," he gasps.

A little tension drained out of the man next to him. He remembered how worried the man seemed last time he was awake. It was good to see him relax some.

"You scared the crap out of me."

That was bad. He knew that was bad. He didn't mean to scare anyone. He'd been scared himself. "Sorry."

The man chuckled, rubbing small circles on his back. "Don't apologize. It's fine. Want to talk about it?"

He really kind of didn't. He shook his head. "I don't really remember it."

The other man sobered a little. "You feel a little more with it?"

He had to think for a minute. A little. Things seemed a little clearer. There were voices bouncing around in his head. He couldn't quite tell if it was from the nightmare or something else. He nodded anyway.

"Good. Think you can answer some questions?"

He remembered the last round of questions and felt the pinch of frustration. "I doubt it," he quips.

The man looked like he was biting back a smile. "At least your personality is still intact."

He figured that must be something at least.

"Alright," the man said, growing serious again. "Same thing as before. Remember your name?"

He knew lots of names. Bobby, Sam, Dean, Cas, John, Charlie, Mary, Amelia, Lisa, Ben... Any of them could have belonged to him for all he really knew about them.

He must have hesitated too long. The man said, "It's fine." He patted his hand. "Really, it's okay. But it's easier if I ask the same questions so I can tell if things start coming back."

That made sense, even if it was eternally frustrating to never have the right answers.

"My name?"

He frowned, concentrating. It was like the lyrics to a half remembered song. It was there. He knew he should know, but he didn't.

"Alrighty, do you know what year it is?"

He shook his head.

"Do you know where you are?"

He thought about that. The room was familiar. He should know this one. It felt warm and somehow lived in. There were personal touches. "Home?" he ventured.

"Are you asking or telling?"

He shrugged.

"Yeah, buddy," the man said with a smile. "You're home."

That seemed a strange thought. Somehow being home seemed wrong, though why he couldn't fathom. Then a thought occurred to him. Someone was missing. "Where's Carla?"

The man frowned. "Carla?"

"Yeah. I haven't seen her that I remember. Is she around?"

"Dude, we don't know a Carla."

"You know Carla. We live with her."

There was a wariness to the man's features when he said, "No, we don't. It's just the two of us."

He took a minute to process that. He knew Carla. She was sweet, if a little klutzy, but he couldn't quite picture her in his mind. "I…"

"I know. It's fine. You're going to be a little scrambled. I promise I'll explain soon. But I need to know that your head's all in working order before I do."

There the man went again, talking about his. His head was fine. Or maybe not. He couldn't remember the names. That was weird.

"Look, it's three in the morning," the man said. "Think you can go back to bed for a little while?"

The nightmare had all but slipped from his mind and now that he thought about it, he could feel sleep tugging at him again. He could sleep. He lay back down and drifted off.

When he finally woke again, he glanced at the clock and realized it was past ten in the morning. He stretched feeling the pull of stiff muscles. He was alone in the room, but only for a moment. He glanced up at the click of the latch just as Dean walked in carrying mugs of coffee. They smelled delicious.

He propped up, realizing for the first time he was sore. Not just sleep stiff, but sore like he'd run all night. He groaned a little, but smiled. "I hope one of those is for me."

Dean, who'd been concentrating on getting in the door without spilling the mugs jerk up and met his eye. "Well look who's up. Thought you were going to sleep all morning. Again."

Dean offered a mug and he took it. It was warm in his hands and the smell was intoxicating. He took a sip off the top, careful not to burn his tongue on the scalding coffee. It was heaven.

He set the mug down on the nightstand and sat up properly so he could look Dean in the eye. "I needed that. Thanks."

Dean shrugged. "Was hoping you might wake up for caffeine."

"Mmm."

"You sound better this morning."

"I feel better this morning."

"No more nightmares?"

He hadn't had any more nightmares, but the rest of his dreams had been bizarre. He kept dreaming about a woman and her kids. She kept screaming and screaming, but he couldn't pinpoint why. "Not really."

"Remember who Carla was?"

He frowned. "I don't really know. I'd know her though. I can't believe…"

"It's fine. Remember. You're just unscrambling. Speaking of, remember that name yet?"

Couldn't they just forget about names? He hated feeling like it was slipping around in the back of his brain just out of reach. "Do we have to do this, Dean?"

Dean froze. "Well, I guess that answers two questions. And yes. We do. You know we do."

He huffed, but leaned back against his headboard.

"Alright, question number three, what year is it?"

"2016." He paused. He hadn't had to think about that one.

"Good. Remember where you are yet?"

He glanced around the room. It was his room. "My room."

Dean snorted. "Two out four is better than we've been doing. You had me worried. I was afraid you'd actually managed to fry your brain this time around."

He frowned at that. "What actually happened?"

"Nuh-uh. Give it a couple of days. If you don't remember on your own, I'll tell you."

He huffed. He just wanted a clear answer for one of these questions that didn't make any sense.

"It's okay. I guess you could say you were in an accident at work. Looks like there won't be any lasting effects, but I want to be sure."

"Fine."

"Awe, there's the little bitch we know and love."

"I…"

"Just relax. I've got it all taken care of."

He felt the niggling of something. Some thought he couldn't quite place. It was like he was having two thoughts at once. It was simultaneously the weirdest and most unsettling feeling he'd ever had.

Dean caught the hand that was holding his coffee just before the mug slipped from his fingers. "Hey, what's wrong?"

"I don't know. I feel weird."

"Weird how," Dean asked, taking the mug from him and sitting on the edge of the bed.

"Dunno."

"That's helpful."

He sat there, feeling Dean's eyes on him and struggling to place what was going on. It felt urgent or like he'd left the stove on.

Dean nudged him in the side. "Are you hurting?"

"No, just a little sore."

"Headache?"

"No. It's more like I'm worried about something that I'm not worried about."

Dean was staring at him. "That was about as clear as mud," he said finally.

He frowned. "I don't know. It's like someone's whispering in my head."

Dean paled a little. "You're not hearing people talk to you? Or seeing anyone?"

He frowned confused. "It's just us in the room. Who would I be seeing?"

Dean relaxed a fraction. "I don't know man. Just covering all our bases."

He wracked his brain for anything that might be amiss. He had been in this room for the past day at least. He hadn't been anywhere or done anything to forget.

"Hey, come on. Let's get you out of this room. Change of scenery and all that." Dean rose from the bed and collected his coffee mug. "We'll go for a walk or something if you're up for it."

He pushed himself to his feet. Aside from being sore, he was fine.


	2. Chapter 2

They settled for watching a movie instead of taking a walk. He was toying with the remote, flipping channels while Dean was off rummaging for snacks. He jumped when Dean flopped down on the couch, bowl of popcorn cradled against his chest. He smiled and stole a handful, much to Dean's annoyance. "This is my popcorn. Go find your own."

This felt good. Right. "Nah, rather have yours."

Dean scowled, muttering under his breath, but plopped the bowl down between them. "You'll never change."

He grinned. Maybe he could do something right after all. They watched a movie. An old one. He didn't recognize it, but he couldn't tell if that was because he had never seen it, or if it was just more of the same. Dean seemed to be waiting for some sort of epiphany, but it was unclear what it was, or should be, or when it was supposed to come. He kept trying to remember, but all it did was give him a headache.

Finally, Dean reached over and smacked him on the arm. "Stop that. Just relax. You'll remember faster if you don't force it."

That was easy for Dean to say. He wasn't the one who was basically lost with no idea who or what he was. Plus there were the weird thoughts that kept cropping up. Things about shopping, or kids, or relatives he was pretty sure he didn't have.

"I don't have an Uncle Will, do I?" He didn't mean for his tone to be so pessimistic, but he'd lost any real hope of actually distinguishing between real memories and these other ones that were apparently bouncing around in his brain.

Dean frowned. "Nope. No biological uncles at all, actually."

"Really?" He said, straightening up.

"Yeah, Mom and Dad were both only children."

"Oh."

Dean tossed back another handful of popcorn. "You remembering random people again?"

He shrugged. "I guess. Thought you weren't going to try and fill in any gaps."

Dean shrugged. "Not exactly a crucial piece of information there."

Fair enough. He supposed it really wasn't.

"What did you remember?" Dean asked.

"It's nothing important," he said.

"So?"

"I just keep thinking I need to call Uncle Will because it's his birthday tomorrow."

"Oh," Dean said, surprised at the answer.

"Yeah."

"Do you even know what today is?"

"Uncle Will's birthday is November 1st."

Dean snorted. "Well, you're close. You were out for a couple of days. It's actually the 5th."

"I just..." He trailed off, looking for the right words. "It's weird. I don't even know the man."

"Could you call him?" Dean seemed genuinely curious. "I mean, even if you wanted to, do you know the phone number?"

"602-555-3683."

"Huh… My cell phone number?"

"Which one?"

Dean snorted. "Fine, smart ass."

Sam relaxed back into the the couch. "What happened to me?"

Dean sobered. "It was just an accident. You're doing fine. It's just going to take some time."

They lapsed into silence, the movie droning on in the background, until a rummaging in the kitchen made him jump. Dean glanced up. "Chill, it's probably just Cas. I'll go see what's up."

Dean unfolded himself from the couch and wandered into the kitchen. Sam got up and followed him after a minute. At the doorway he paused and listened. They were talking about him, he knew.

Inside Dean was saying, "I don't know, Cas. He's still scrambled pretty bad. He recognizes me. At least he knows my name and he seems to do better if he's not thinking about what he's trying to remember, but it worries me that he doesn't remember his own name. And earlier he was talking about hearing whispers in his head."

"Perhaps the sorceress did something," a deep gravely voice said. "You did say she cast a spell before you could silence her."

"That's what I'm worried about."

"I could examine him if you like."

Dean sighed. "No. Not yet. I really want to let him remember if he can. He's had too much mixed up to be digging around in that brain just yet.

"You know best."

"No, I don't at this point. I just think it's better if we don't throw too much at him yet. I think she mind melded with him or something. He keeps remembering things he shouldn't."

"He's strong, he'll heal in time."

"Yeah. I know."

Sam backed away slowly and tiptoed back to the couch. He sank into the cushions and took a deep, shuddering breath. Something was wrong. Something had happened and now something in his head was broken. When Dean wandered back out, Sam had had just enough time to compose himself so that he could smile at the snarky comments tossed his way.

The rest of the day passed quietly enough. Dean had unearthed some books that he was currently perusing. He didn't feel up to much, he was still sore and aching and activity seemed to make him tired easily. He nodded off before Dean could force him to eat dinner.

He dreamed of fire.

There were flames all around him. He could feel them licking at his skin and he needed out. The lack of oxygen made him gasp and choke. He could see someone moving through the smoke. He tried to call out, but they disappeared. He tried to chant, put out the flames, but it was no use, they were consuming him and he was going to feel every second of it.

Through the haze, a hand reached out. It was icy against his cracking skin. No matter how he twisted he couldn't break free and he couldn't see the person who had grabbed him.

A mouth whispered in his ear over his own screams at the horror of the fire.

"This is what you've done to me," it said in a rough whisper.

He yanked and tugged, but he was being held tight. He couldn't move, he was just stuck. Where was Dean? Why wasn't Dean doing something? He had to be there.

Another set of hands grabbed him, sending waves of fiery pain through his body. He screamed at the pain. He was shaking. It just hurt. It hurt so badly.

"Sam!"

He just wanted it to end. Please let it end.

His head cracked against something hard and he jolted up in bed. His hair was plastered to his head and he was dripping with sweat. Dean had grabbed his shoulders and was leaning over him, eyes wide.

Sam took a shaky breath and let it out. It had felt so real. Even now, he could feel the tightness of burnt skin and his lungs felt tight and irritated. He coughed, choking on the clean air of his room.

Everything hurt.

He looked up at Dean. He could feel the tears in his eyes, but he didn't care.

Dean stared down at him in horror. "Fuck. What happened?"

Sam shook his head. "I was burning."

Dean made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. "Okay," he said. "Alright. It's going to be okay. It's probably not as bad as it looks."

Sam frowned and glanced down at his arms. They were bright red, even white in some places, and blistering as though he'd gotten horribly sunburned. "What…"

"I don't know man," he said, pulling away. "Come on. Let's get you up and out of those clothes. You're still burning hot. Get undressed, gently. And I'll run you a bath. We need to see how bad it is."

Sam whimpered as he climbed out of the bed and began to shed his clothes. It felt like his skin was super sensitized and every small movement sent streaks of fire through him.

When he was down to his boxers, he stumbled towards the bathroom where he could hear water running. Dean was standing over the tub watching it fill. He turned as Sam came in and swore.

"Okay. Boxers too."

Sam knew he should be embarrassed to be seen stark naked, but really he was convinced he was going to die if he had to pull them over his sensitive skin. He had lost all sense of everything. It all just hurt and it sent him into half haze that made him feel like he was floating.

Bracing himself, he pulled the elastic out as far as he could and began working them down. It was like someone was peeling away his skin, inch by inch. Finally they were off and Dean ushered him to the tub.

"Alright. In."

Sam set his hand on Dean's shoulder for balance and stepped over the side. He knew it couldn't be terribly cold water, but it felt like ice. It was so cold it burned in whole new ways. He jerked his foot up, unable to stand the feeling.

"No, man. You have to. It sucks, but you have to. We've got to get you're temp down and it'll help ease the burns."

Sam whimpered as he plunged his foot down. It took all his will power to set the other foot in the tub and lowering to sit was excruciating. Within minutes he was sure he was in Hell. He was shivering from the frigid water and burning all at the same time. Dean was running water over his back and chest and kept insisting that Sam do the same over his head and face.

Thirty minutes later, Sam was finally starting to feel semi-human and Dean seemed to have lost a little of his panic. At least until he noticed Sam's lips, which felt entirely numb to him.

"Shit."

Sam blinked up at him, tired and hazy. "Wha?" he slurred. He felt thick and tired. He just wanted to go back to bed and go to sleep. For days if possible.

"Dammit. You're blue."

Sam frowned. "No. I'm burn'd. Thas red."

"Fuck. Okay. Stay here. Don't move and don't fall asleep."

Sam hmmed and propped on the edge of the tub. Dean scurried out the door and was back in record time with a thermometer. "Open!"

Sam took the thermometer without complaint. Anything that let him be left alone was fine by him. Finally, Dean yanked the thermometer from Sam's mouth and glanced at it.

He went pale. "Whas wrong?"

"You're hypothermic. Fuck. We kept you in the bath too long."

"So?"

"I don't think I can deal with this here. Cas!" Dean yelled. "Get your feathery ass down here! Sam's in trouble." He turned back to Sam. "If he doesn't show in the next thirty seconds, I'm hauling your ass to the ER."

"'k"

With a rushing, Cas stood in their bathroom. He took a glance in Sam's direction, then averted his eyes. "What's wrong?"

Dean pointed at Sam. "That's what's wrong. He was sleeping, then screaming. When I woke him up he was burned to shit. Now he's hypothermic from them."

Cas leaned forward to meet Sam's eye. "I can try to heal you."

Sam nodded. "Sure." He didn't really care at that point. "Do your thing."

Cas laid two fingers on Sam's forehead and he felt a flush of warmth. It tingled in a not so pleasant way. Sam shivered, but when he blinked, he at least felt more aware of what was going on.

"I have healed the burns and your body temperature should stabilize soon. What caused this?"

Sam hugged his arms to his chest, distinctly aware, now that he wasn't dying of the pain, that he was sitting stark naked on the side of the tub in front of Dean and Cas. Dean read his discomfort and threw him a towel that he wrapped around himself.

"I had a dream," Sam said through a yawn. "I was trapped in a burning room and I couldn't get out. Someone else was there. They grabbed my arm. She said that it was what I had done to her. I don't even know who she was." Sam looked at Dean. "What happened to me?"

Dean shifted uncomfortably. "Not here. Let's get you in the bed and I'll explain."

"Dean, I swear if you don't tell me right now, I'm going to strangle you within an inch of your life."

With a grim frown, Dean grabbed him by his arm and levered him to his feet. "Once you're in the bed. If you pass out in here, I'm not hauling you back to your room."

They moved back to Sam's room and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't relieved to be dressed and laying down again. Stupid brothers always had to be right. "Okay, what went down?"

Dean sat on the edge of the bed. "Brain check first."

"Dean…" Sam whined.

"Don't, _Dean_ , me. You want answers, you play by my rules."

Sam leaned back against the headboard. "Sam," he said, pointing to himself. "Dean, Cas, my bedroom, 2016." Sam pointed to each person as he spoke.

Dean scowled at him. "Whoah. Not so fast there. Okay. What's your last name?"

Sam frowned. It was there. He knew it was there. He could almost remember it.

Dean nodded. "Thought so. Do you remember who I am to you?"

Sam rolled his eyes. "You're my brother. Cas is an angel. We hunt monsters."

"I get it, okay. It seems stupid and you want answers, but I want to make sure you're all in one piece. So chill your ass out."

Sam heaved a long suffering sigh but nodded.

"Better. Remember where we are yet?"

"My bedroom."

"Where? Give me a location, a state, something."

Sam scowled in frustration. "I don't know. It's like there's big gaps."

Dean nodded. "Fine. That's fine. That's all I needed to know. But it's coming back, that's good."

"Can we talk about the elephant in the room now?"

Dean seemed to shrink a little. "Yeah. All right. So, you remember what we do for a living?"

"We're hunters."

"Right. So we got wind of this witch, who it turns out was more than a witch. She was grade A sorceress. And she was pissed that we showed up. We didn't have what we needed, not really so we improvised. She got her claws into you before we could finish and I saw her do some sort of spell. I think she did some sort of mind meld with you. I don't know. But you went down just as I got the fire going. She burned, Sam. I don't know what else happened, but when I set fire to her alter, she went up too. And she sort of just collapsed into dust. She must have been centuries old. I think magic was the only thing holding her together."

Sam stared at his lap. "So you think it's her memories I'm remembering?"

"I don't know, but it seems likely."

"She had family."

"Sam, she was kidnapping children and eating their hearts."

Sam felt himself go a little green. He'd actually been feeling something like pity for her. He knew she had made relationships to people, although if she was as old as Dean thought, they couldn't be her actual family. It was hard to line that up with child murdering sorceress.

"What do we do now? I don't think I want to go back to sleep."

"You've got to sleep, man. Whatever she did, it's not been good for you. I can see the circles under your eyes."

"But what if something happens again? She must be pretty pissed at this point. We need to solve this."

"I know, but things like this can take days. You can't go days without sleep. Not as exhausted as you already are."

"We can't take the chance that whatever this is will happen again. There are too many things that can go wrong."

Cas, who had been lurking in a corner to this point, cleared his throat. "I think Sam is right."

"What?" Dean demanded.

"The sorceress obviously intended to cause Sam to suffer. So far, it's only happened in his sleep. Perhaps it's best for now if we try to find a solution before Sam goes back to sleep."

"Look," Dean said. "I get that both of you are nuts, and you have a point, but Sam was literally deep fried in his sleep, lived through probably at least second degree burns, and was hypothermic for at least twenty minutes. Even healing him, that's a stress. Sam, it's a miracle you're still awake now."

Sam pushed himself to the edge of his bed, regretting having to leave the soft comfort of the mattress. "I'll live, Dean. We have to try something."

Dean threw his hands in the air. "Fine! You want to pull some crazy shit, then fine. I'll be in the stacks researching if you two come to your senses or decide you want to help."

Dean stormed from the room, flinging the door open as he left. It bounced against the wall. Sam looked up at Cas. "We have a library?"


	3. Chapter 3

They found Dean pouring over the card catalogue when they finally rounded the corner into the research room. He was focused on a box of cards and barely grunted when they came in. Sam glanced over his shoulder at what he was searching then went to work thumbing through the extensive catalogue for anything that sounded vaguely helpful.

Since he wasn't familiar with the shelving system, he would hand Cas a card and keep digging. They ended up with a table laden with heavy books. Even looking at them made Sam's eyes droop, but he pushed on.

They spent hours there. After the third with no luck, Sam finally gave in. "I need coffee," he said, stretching back over the back of his chair.

Dean grunted, immersed in his own book. "Bring me a cup too."

Sam frowned down at the book in front of him. He didn't actually know where the kitchen was in relation to this room. He debated asking for help, but eventually just got up. It couldn't be that hard to find. Dean found him a half hour later roaming down a hallway lined with closed doors on the opposite side from the kitchen.

"What are you doing down here? Get a magic brain wave?"

Sam turned to look at him. "Oh, um no. Kitchen?"

Dean paused, surprised. The pieces came together for him and he frowned. "Why didn't you ask earlier?"

Sam shrugged. "I figured it couldn't be that hard to find."

Dean snorted. "Come on, this way."

Together they made their way to the tiled room and, fueled and ready to work, they gathered back at their table.

It was an endless task. Book after book after file after journal after book. There were files on sorceresses. But they didn't mention anything that sounded like what had happened to Sam. There were tombs of magic and books of shadows, but it was a tedious process. They were random amalgams of information and they had to be combed through. Sam's eyes were burning by the time he finally had to give in and get up or risk nodding off over the top of his book.

Finally, sometime late into the night, Dean said, "I think I found something."

At this point, they'd all uttered that same line at least a half dozen times apiece. Sam wandered over to lean wearily over his shoulder. It was written in something vaguely resembling Latin, but his tired brain couldn't make heads or tails of it. Dean could though. He translated roughly. "A spell to link minds – for revenge or perspective."

Sam snorted. Well, that might be something. "Does it say how to work it, or better yet, how to cancel out the magic?"

"Give me a minute," he growled. "Translating bastardized Latin on the fly is a lot harder for the rest of us."

"We were raised on Latin. Don't tell me you're getting rusty in your old age."

"Whoever wrote this took their best guess at what Latin should look like and then drug it through the mud. Some of these words aren't even real I don't think."

"Somehow, I think you'll manage."

"Shut up," he muttered. "You'd think you'd be a little more adoring given that I'm trying to save your ass."

"My hero."

Dean leaned over the page. "What the fuck does herbellum mean?"

"Herba is plant. Bellum could be war I guess," Sam supplied.

"So waring plants?"

Sam shrugged. "Dunno. Or it could be some dude named Herbel."

Dean groaned. "I'm going to have to fucking translate this."

"I know every language of man," Cas volunteered.

"Right," Dean said. "Angel. Could you?"

He slid the book across the table. Cas studied it for a long time before he finally pushed it back. "I don't know what language that is."

Dean dropped his head into his hands and palmed his eyes. He took a long breath in. Finally he said, "Okay. Sam, grab a pencil and a notebook. Let's try to decipher some of this. Cas, keep working on your end in case this is a bust. But first, I need a stretch."

He stood up and hobbled out. Sam watched him go. "He needs to sleep," he said to the room at large.

"I doubt he will," Cas said.

Sam blinked and turned back to the angel. "I know. But he does. We all do. Well, maybe not you, but I do."

"Perhaps you both should take a break."

Sam shook his head. "No, we've got to solve this before I can. And Dean won't crash until I do." He rummaged under the sprawl of papers and found the pad he'd been taking notes on. Setting it in his lap, he pulled the book closer and began working through the dense text.

Dean had been right. It was Latin. With a dabble in something vaguely Germanic and some pretend Latin to boot. He kept slogging.

He was about a third of the way down the page when Dean reappeared carrying coffee in steaming mugs. Sam could have hugged him if it wouldn't have taken more effort to get out of his chair.

It took them three more hours to finally crack what the page said. Fortunately, it was something helpful. It held the recipe that had been used and the incantation. No counter spell, but those were easy enough to reverse engineer with their experience. They checked their solution nearly a dozen times, but finally, Sam snapped.

"Let's just do this thing. I can't do this much longer."

Dean straightened up from his spot over the notebook. "Okay," he croaked. He pointed to the makeshift alter they had made. "Stand behind that. When I tell you to, say the incantation."

Sam took up his spot. He watched as Dean went about setting up the actual run. There were a handful of herbs that had to be burning when he said the spell. Dean crushed them up in a stone bowl. He lit a match and tossed it. A short streak of smoke began to rise. It smelled horribly burnt, like ashes. When the herbs had been lit for a good minute, Dean nodded and Sam read from his paper.

It was some sort of gobbledy gook that they had salvaged from the book. Dean had argued that they should translate it into proper Latin, or even English, but Sam figured it should stay in whatever it was written in. They'd just have to make their best guess and roll with it.

Sam finished reading and there was a horrible crushing feeling in his skull. He felt the jarring as his knees hit the floor, but he didn't care about it because his head was going to split in half. It felt like something was squeezing him.

He could hear Dean yelling at him vaguely over his own cry of pain.

He felt heat rising around him. He was thrust back into that burning room. Someone was wailing in the distance. And suddenly there was something in front of him. It wasn't a person. It was dark and shifting. In the crackling flames it seemed distorted and twisted. He jerked back as it reached for him. It was the thing that was wailing. It was screaming and he just wanted to run, but he could feel the flames climbing up the back of his shirt and the wall of fire behind him, blocking him into his place. He was going to have to do something and fast.

The smoke was getting to him. His world was narrowing in. The screaming went on and on and pierced through him. When the world finally went dark, it was a miracle. He let himself relax into it and just floated.

When he finally blinked awake, it was sudden. One minute he was out, the next he was aware. He thought something might have woken him, but he couldn't place anything. From the corner of his eye, he could see Dean sprawled out across the same chair he appeared to have been sleeping in for the last week or so, passed out. He had a thin string of drool trailing down his cheek. Sam carefully rolled his head, afraid of moving too fast and waking him. Cas was sitting in a chair on the opposite side of him, reading a book.

Cas glanced up when he moved.

Sam smiled at him. "Hey," he said.

Cas glanced at Dean, then set his book aside. "It's good to see you awake."

Sam's smile slipped. "That bad?"

"Dean was worried you might not wake up this time."

"I… I didn't mean to."

"You passed out right after the ritual."

"Yeah. Turns out the sorceress wasn't happy about being expelled."

"You slept for several days."

Sam huffed. "Again?"

"You do seem to have a knack for it."

Sam snorted softly. "I don't suppose you've managed to get him into a bed?"

"He didn't want to leave you."

Sam smiled to himself. "I know." He yawned.

"Perhaps you should get a few more hours yourself."

"Yeah," Sam agreed sleepily. He allowed himself to slip back into sleep. He had that comfortable bed after all.

It took another few weeks before he began to feel confident that he was going to get all his memories back. It was slow building, but he did eventually remember most events up to that hunt. Nothing about it actually ever came back.

When he woke up the next morning, he was surprised by the quiet. He hadn't realized how much room the sorceress's thoughts had been taking up in his head until she was gone. He had lain in the bed, watching the dust spiral in the light from his lamp and marveled in the fact that he couldn't hear a thing. It was probably better than the three straight days of unconsciousness had been.

Sam wondered occasionally if there would ever be a way to be certain he got all his memories back. For several weeks, he kept finding little gaps that Dean had to fill in, mostly about that night.

He still had a handful that didn't really belong to him too. He would remember them at odd times. Passing the sign for the biggest can of beer made him think of a dorm room he never had and a roommate he couldn't name. Dean said something about butterflies and Sam flipply responded in rote. Dean stared at him instead of laughing and Sam realized it wasn't one of their inside jokes.

There were a dozen small things that Sam knew he shouldn't have bouncing around in his brain, but he was alive and it was quiet in his head. He figured the rest would sort itself out.


End file.
